The Fabulous Misadventures of Clint Barton's Vent Hopping
by WitchWarren
Summary: 05/May: This chapter is basically a crack mish-mashing of my fandoms. Because I only realised recently that BOTH my OTPs have archers in them. WHAT is my life? Now: So this was sitting around on my laptop and since my muse is refusing to cooperate with my OUAT fic I decided to finish this up and hope it unblocks my block. Sorry everyone.
1. Chapter 1

Clint was crawling through the vents near Coulson's office – totally _not_ eavesdropping – when he happened to overhear this; "…god he really is a sexy, sexy archer."

_WHAT?_

The next five seconds were quietest fast hustle-crawl he'd ever executed in his _LIFE_. Coulson could not have said what he thought he'd said.

"So _that's_ your type huh?" There was Hill's relaxed cynicism; this must be one of their after-hours knitting circles in order to make sure their CPUs were up to normal social interactions. And apparently to gossip about hot archers who may or may not be in the vent above them. What?

"It's not like that." Coulson tried to wave her off – _blushing?_ Hot damn. They were now officially on first name privileges, Clint smirked and settled in to hear more. "He's a hero right? Ok. But that's just your basic information and anybody can swoon over that. But it's his _personality_ that's so charming. And it doesn't hurt that he's a natural born charmer. You get that he's a player but he's _honest_, with a _good code_ about doing what's right. And be honest; he makes you wanna flirt back."

Hill – no it was Maria; off-duty and relaxed – tilted her head and made a face. "Mmm-nah, give me the great suit and aura of menace."

"You just like them a little older."

"Well _yeah_. Mr _Gold_."

"Come on; the twinkling blue eyes, the dirty blond hair," up in the vents Clint's smirk grew wider. "The mischievous grin, the playful banter, the arms; woof!"

"Woof?"

"Don't tell me you wouldn't; that is a _fine_ face and form. And the way he's _so_… Uh!"

Clint was close to all out chuckling; _this was delicious_, and was about to ask Phil to elaborate on that last comment about his '_fiiiiine_ face and form' before this;

"Sean is just sexy okay? To quote Tumblr; 'he makes my ovaries go BOOM'."

"Phil, you're a guy."

"Exactly. He makes non-existent female genitalia that I do not have explode. Don't pretend you don't have the same problem when he goes all gallant; 'Use mine for the both of us'. Tell me that didn't make you melt a little inside."

'_Shawn'? Phil was seeing other archers? Archers named _'Shawn'_ what the hell?_

Down in the office the two most stone-cold senior members of SHIELD were having a stare-down, with Maria squirming as Phil pinned her with a disbelieving stare.

"…Ok, fine! My uterus was a puddle of chocolate and my self-respect _literally_ drained out of my body along with every ounce of bitch is that what you wanna hear?"

"So long as you admit it," Phil smirked in triumph. Before _sighing_ _what the hell?_ Clint scowled. "His son too, the way he was so concerned about losing Roland when Neal wanted to use him as bait before. I mean _god_, those moments were brief but you can _tell_ he's such a devoted parent – especially with Marian's death. It just makes me love him even more."

And Clint drooped, having heard enough; Coulson liked a guy with a _kid_. More than that – _loved_ the guy; this widowed single father who just had the bumfuck shitastic luck to be an archer. He was just about to go off and drown in Nat's nearest stash of vodka when Maria started talking again.

"You're still in the middle of the second half of the season aren't you…..?"

"Yeah, well we had all those incidents last year so I was stuck on the bit of the second season before they went on hiatus and missed out on all the Greg-Tamara build up. I'm getting through one episode each Sunday because y'know," He waved his hand with a deprecating grimace to indicate the ridiculous 24/6 schedule Fury had him on before he collapsed every Saturday night and put in about maybe 16-17hours off sleep. Not that Clint was keeping track. Or listening in to conversations between Phil and his handler buddies. What? "I should be done by the time the new season rolls in. Why?"

Maria Hill regarded him for a long moment with the exact same expression Natasha used to stare the Hulk in the face. "…I should probably sit with you during the finale."

Grey eyes immediately sharpen and focus with laser intensity. "What happens?"

"Um…"

"They kill him don't they? I knew it! Regina is never allowed to have _any_ happiness is she? They just take everything she loves. Daniel, Henry, Graham—"

"She killed Graham in the first season."

"It counts! And now they're going to kill Robin too. Oh god, what's going to happen to _Roland?_"

Phil continued to rant about beautiful, independent women who'd already been subjected to enough trauma and the unfairness of life and the general sadism of screenwriters who are utter bastards never giving the public what they really want or teasing them mercilessly or not moving with the true heart and soul of the story but Clint tuned him out to slump – quietly – against the metal in front of the grate.

.

.

.

.

.

A goddamn TV show.

* * *

WitW: Ending it there. PM me if you want to know which writers I was attacking for what because shit my feels. Also I'll take prompts if you have any. This might become a series.


	2. Boxing Day 2014

**WitW:** With all the Christmas fics lying around I thought I'd write a (belated) Boxing Day fic. Mixed with my own Christmas spirit. Be warned.

* * *

It was an accident that Clint found them together at all. They'd just gotten a new base of operations and Clint's Christmas present to himself – besides being _damn_ good with a bow – was a chance to explore the vents while everyone was sleeping of Christmas Day. What he didn't count on was getting lost.

Also; stumbling onto the remains of the senior staff party.

That head office was _trashed_.

Sitwell was lounging in the sink, Blake was wearing a turban made of what appeared to be his suit jacket and tie – Garret was overseas because he preferred to spend Christmas kicking doors instead of kicking back. And _Maria Hill_, Assistant Director of SHIELD; all-round tough military stock with a frosty temper to match her eyes, was spread-eagled underneath a glass coffee table in a slip of sparkly fabric Clint was sure was supposed to be a festive dress when it was properly extended. Even Fury – _Fury_ – was there, somehow in full Matrix position (to go with his coat) over the back of the sofa. Completely balanced.

Scary mother fucker.

The only one who seemed completely normal in his state of unconsciousness was Coulson. Stretched out on his back with a blanket covering him, he would've looked perfectly comfortable and cosy if it weren't for Fury hovering over him like a demented, disfigured bat.

Seriously. How did they do that?

Clint was silently sniggering and reaching for his phone (not to take shots of _Coulson_, what? Where'd you get that idea? Just 'cause he's unguarded and kind of cute...) when he noticed the discarded blanket on the armchair. _Who...?_

"Barton."

As an agent of SHIELD he would like it on the record that he did not jump and hit his head on the vent ceiling. Just like he didn't shriek like a girl beforehand _or_ let anyone get the drop on him. He was a damn fine agent of SHIELD. Only Natasha could make him do these things. Because it was okay if Natasha. She's like 'Because reasons' but better. And Russian.

Clint would like to state that what happened after that interlude where those other things _did not_ _happen_ was true, though it didn't seem like it at the time. It went like this;

Coulson bolted upright and sang;

"FIVE! COCK! RINGS!"

Fury startled awake, overbalanced backward, and smoothly belly-flopped onto the table;

BANG

Which didn't break. Huh. SHIELD Holocaust Proof TM

That (second) bang obviously woke Hill, seeing as she was underneath the thing;

BANG

Definitely SHIELD Holocaust Proof TM

So _that_ bang(third) woke Sitwell, who managed _not_ to bang anything but still groaned like he did, but when he tried to get out it seemed he was wedged in (Blake seemed to be protected from the noise by his turban. He might be dead. It was a real possibility at SHIELD parties). Suffice to say a LOT of quiet, multi-lingual swearing came from the kitchen corner.

But all this rapid-fire slapstick had nothing on Coulson, slowly snuggling back into his original position;

"Four body swaps, three threesomes, _two_ strap-ons, _and a 'verse in Rule 63!_" He yawned, "on the sixth day of Bingo...beta...gave..." Coulson let out a snore.

Sitwell seemed to be trying smother himself, "Come _on_ Phil! What've we said about sleep-singing!"

Fury, who hadn't even shown a _hint_ of pain, glared in Clint's direction from where he'd crouched down after-fall and not moved(Huh. Maybe some hint of pain.) "I supposed you think this is funny?"

(Shit shit shit shi-)

"A little sir." Melinda May strode out from underneath Clint's vent to check on the A.D. Apparently she knocked herself out again on that table.

SHIELD Holocaust Proof TM

"Boxing Day unconsciousness is meant to be _sacred woman_-" Sitwell started to rant(quietly because he was apparently suffering) but Clint tuned him out fast.

Coulson had managed to roll on top of his blanket and Clint caught a glimpse muscled yards of skin and tight black boxers.

_Me-rry Christmas!_

Coulson was then covered in a blanket and Clint looked up into Melinda May's knowing eyes.

Merry Christmas...

Natasha would never believe a word of this.

* * *

**WitW:** Someone prompt me for this sometime.


End file.
